>коли под наем.
Each chapter starts in the drift, a scene already underway in which emotions, actions and the environment are swirling; the narrative takes this all taken for granted as if the audience were already there–had some prior knowledge. Speed, adrenaline, emotions are the sensations we are looking for, allowing for anxiety, curiosity and bewilderment: aspects of mystery that will unravel as each chapter comes to a close. This becomes an excellent trope when dealing with the interactive, investigation, each member of the audience is the detective, is, complicit! (?) диваниedfa СувенириИдея за подаръкикониикониПравославни иконииконописikoni
http://comunismodaforma.zip.net/
It’s neither this nor that, but understood by both–they own a forged center for sadness. It’s locus, known only by it’s self, is in loss–a freedom founded on wings this nor that wants but both owns. The book of loss, written without scope, without this knowing it’s self, without that grounding so well formed, is a still being of continued writing. A bliss rises through this and that, diving though the words in the book of reasoned loss.
Pace. Caught by the distinction between realities, of relative contemplation compared to paced distraction. Each probably envious of the other. Composing scattered thoughts lacking the time and ability to cognate through to an idea or ideal as though life truly were the moment like the Yogis all said. Breathing should be more deeply measured than shallow raspiness catching up to the next window of thought being prised open with scrabbling hands through the chatter and clatter of now this or that without even pausing to imagine why or what. Grinding your teeth through an infusion of layered technology cake sprinkled with iconic little William Gibsons. Pause long enough to hug the ground or your child and still through it all realise that none of it really matters at the end of the day even if that day doesn’t ever seem to stop.
this’ joy is borne out of sadness–it was long ago but it still holds those threads that found it, give it an origin, an horizon. without it’s origin in sadness, this’ joy is lost, without grace, in a vacuum of meaninglessness–no tether, no ties of compassion–of which, this’ joy rises. this’ joy is the foundation for it’s life.
It is not what you think it is. The story did have an understood beginning… and an end, but it didn’t matter once begun, we knew it would end itself in its own time, no sooner, no later, just nicely so. When it will be over… it will seem natural, rational, possibly enlightened—but not before we’re in it: before then, it felt completely at odds with itself.
And… it ends in a dance, but, of course, we always knew it would.
икони
Profusion upon saturation. Wandering from work mail to home account to Facebook poking to MSN checks to txt bits to alternate obscure spam-catching alias to back and forth between and around while contemplating the addition of extra outlets of the fabled simulacra that is Web 2.0, whether Mycraigs.icio.space commentary and on into an infinity of options not the least of which is this outlet beckoning for attention more fruitful and sustained than the quick pen and dart that is so much of the daily convo while fielding feeds from afar and near and left right and centre and, oh yeah, actually doing some work so that someone will pay you to play.
That has always felt like being an outsider on the in–creating a curiosity in trying to reach this… or returning to it, an overdue task. That knowing one must be this or that is an awareness it offers in solace. Between this and that, it remains dark, and… a matter of time. It is hard to say.
This, the idea of self-awareness is a wonderful and varied thing–this knows it. This at once tries to deny its willingness to open up, to speak–largely about itself given to its own suspect ownness… yet it continues. To be part of this denies that–therein lies the distance between this and that. The question remains… is this… it?
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